


Interwoven

by plastics



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Come Inflation, Extreme Insertion, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Restraints, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: It is the nature of the Void to consume.





	Interwoven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cadmean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmean/gifts).



> Hope this works for you, cadmean, your prompt was a lot of fun to work with!

It is the nature of the Void to consume, and so the Abyss came to be. The Collector likes to think of itself as above such base instincts, but it still feels itself bowing to the call. Somehow, there are still things down there, living things, who did not truly know the joy of Love and hatred and Radiance and infection. And so, the Collector goes home.

Things have, indeed, changed. Plenty dead in some form or another but enough that aren’t, and, oh, isn’t that precious. The Collector will need to come back again—it hadn’t been sure what it would find, didn’t pack sufficient supplies for what it did, perhaps it would need to go up in size for the jars… 

There are so many things to consider that the Collector hardly notices when it’s wandering into, well—there’s something the Collector finds deeply unpleasing about unincorporated Void, natural as it may be. It may even be _the_ natural way, but the Collector’s put in effort to be itself away from everything else. The Collector has a purpose, past being or serving.

Still, the Collector doesn’t run at the first twitch from the puddle. It’s been awhile, the Collector supposes, and perhaps more of the Void has learned to form itself, more little bugs and grubs to cherish.

The Collector jerks back as thick ropes of Void shoot out. It tries to jump back and flee, but the tendrils are just as fast as the Collector. They wrap tight around one of the Collector’s ankles and pull it back towards the form, and, yes, the Collector can already feel it, the call to be one.

It has been a long while since Void has touched the Collector, other than itself. The feeling is—odd. As the tendrils coil around the Collector’s legs, arms, neck, they are exactly like itself in touch, temperature, motivation, but they are _not_ the Collector. The boundaries seem to confuse the tendrils as they continue to wriggle and tighten and search across the Collector’s body, like the Collector’s being is just some edge they could unfold.

But the Collector _likes_ being itself. It can’t dissolve here. However hard it tries to pull away, though, the tendrils are just as strong, and there’s more of them. The Collector knew it was a mistake to come down here, and, oh, maybe, maybe the Collector is not as whole as it thought, because the tendrils do find a way in.

A smaller, pointed tendril nosed its way over the Collector’s hip, down between its thighs, pressing insistently until, somehow, it goes in. It shouldn’t be possible, but tendril practically vibrates with joy as it wriggles into the Collector. The Collector is sure that it’s the end, for a moment, that the nail will unfurl the Collector entirely. Surely something cannot _be_ after such a violation, but the Collector does hold itself together, forming new walls just in time to feel the tendril burrow deep, until the Collector can feel it with its whole body, small as it is, before retreating. It doesn’t go far, though. The head stays at the tear in the Collector, nudging the opening further apart until it practically feels like a part instead of a worried fault. 

When the tendril pushes back in, it’s much more than just _the_ tendril—the Collector couldn’t be sure how many, but certainly _more_ are twisting into it, spreading the Collector open under their incessant search for more of the Collector, all of it. The Void is not patient. They push forward hard and fast, no matter how hard the Collector tries to close itself off. Focusing there, though, distracts it from the tendrils swirling around his head until one presses into it there, too, opening the Collector up for more rushing tendrils.

And maybe the Collector has spent too long in above ground, in this form, but its face feels—the Collector is attached to its entire body, but its face feels particularly vital. It’s where the Collector lives. The tendrils keep pushing in and down, through the narrow, delicate column of the Collector’s throat, and panic begins to overwhelm it.

It’s nonsensical to try and cough, to expunge these things physically, but the Collector is well and truly trapped. The tendrils that aren’t twisting tighter on its arms and legs, holding the Collector open for examination, are pushing ever deeper into the Collector, stuffing more of themselves into it, like it’s a simple matter of tipping the scales to less Collector and more them.

There’s a moment where the Collector hopes the tendrils have grown bored or lost hope when they all withdraw and leave it blessedly whole. They don’t leave enough for the Collector to completely reseal itself, though. Instead, the tendrils stay massaging at their openings, coaxing the Collector open, until something _big_ presses up against it. The Collector can tell it’s from the same tendrils, but it pins the Collector from the inside even more thoroughly.

Even then, though, none of it will ever stay _still._ The Collector is prone to its own fits of franticness, but it can’t move at all, while the tendrils are still excavating the Collector with the obsessive thoroughness that, well, brought the Collector back down here and all over the rest of Hallownest.

Every time the tendrils withdraw, the Collector can feel itself leaking. Or, well, not _itself,_ but pure Void, like the tendrils were pumping him full of the stuff. The Collector can feel the pressure building within itself, not just the writhing tendrils but also _more._ The Collector’s form isn’t the most rigid in the kingdom but it can still feel itself becoming… distended. Swollen. It’s so hard to remember where the Collector ends and the rest of the Void begins, but it must, it cannot forget for a second that the Collector is the Collector is the Collector.

But the Void is dark and overwhelming—all-consuming—and it’s so hard to hold on. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed in the Abyss and harder still to remember why that matters. No part of the Collector goes untouched. Every inch of it feels like itself not out of boundary or self but sheer will, or memory.

* * *

The Collector is Void. Void simply is, completely, wholly, everything in nothing. Void is. The Collector is.

  


* * *

Given focus, given form. The Collector cannot explain how it found itself again reformed, whole and alone, other than it could, so it did. The Collector has a purpose, and that was enough. But it will not return to the Abyss.


End file.
